


Late-night rendezvous

by Brackish



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - War, Angst, But things turn around, Enemies is a bit of a strong description, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, Light Angst, Mentions of Blood, More like Angela's had a rough day and isn't interested in making friends, Mostly plotless, No Major Character Death, One Shot, Overwatch - Freeform, Pharmercy, Short One Shot, nothing too graphic, rocket angel, some violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-10
Updated: 2017-08-10
Packaged: 2018-12-13 14:40:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11762031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brackish/pseuds/Brackish
Summary: In a small city, not too far from the front, Angela works tirelessly to help the people. A volunteer medical officer, she dedicates every waking hour to treating the injured. In the few hours she gives herself to rest, she finds herself at the same run-down cafe, eating the same food and drinking the safe coffee, staving off the morning and the horrors of tomorrow, until Fareeha walks through the door.





	Late-night rendezvous

Angela sighs, resting her chin in her palm as she gazes out the window. The rain has begun to come down a little bit harder, but the cafe is warm enough to keep the worst of the chill at bay.

What few street lights that aren't broken are working overtime, their orange glow struggling to pierce the downpour that seems determined to transform the small city outside of Munich into Venice. Every now and then, Angela sees the lights of a truck rattling past, slowly making its way down the alleyway as not to scrape against the rows of cars that line either side.

The faint scents of gasoline and roast hang over every inch of the cafe. It’s a smell that Angela has become used to in the tiny establishment; She often finds herself sitting in the same place, usually in the same few hours after midnight, but never out of choice. It’s hardly the most homely of places - the paint on the walls has begun to peel, there’s barely ever more than two or three people in it at any given time, and the food is mediocre at best. But it’s one of the few places in the city that still lets people smoke indoors, and as if in gratitude for that fact Angela raises her cigarette to her lips once more, letting another deep sigh ride upon the exhale.

A tired looking waitress brings Angela a hot plate of _something,_ accompanied by a steaming, pitch-black mug of the cheapest coffee that Angela will no doubt savour like the sweetest wine. She thanks the lady, and with a chipped fork begins to dismantle her meal. Boiled potatoes, slices of beef that have no doubt been stewing for days, a few greens and a chunk of crusty bread, all smothered in a rich gravy.

It’s not luxury, but there’s some small comfort in the hot meal. What’s more, it’s exactly what she needs after what she’s been through. She places her smouldering cigarette on the counter, embers hanging over the edge, and slowly begins to eat.

It almost chokes her, how cloying the flavours are on her palate, but she forces down bite after bite knowing that with each mouthful, she’ll stay full for at least another day.

When her plate is clean, the waitress returns to take it away.

“More coffee?” The waitress says, gesturing to Angela’s mug.

“Yes.” Angela nods, picking up her cigarette. “Please.”

Despite the coffee, Angela can feel herself slowly leaning over the precipice of sleep, but she holds off. The longer she stays away, the further she pushes the morning - at least, that’s how it works in her mind. She raises a weary hand, rubbing at her eyes; Her whole body feels stiff and sore, as if in stone.

When her cigarette is finished, she lights another, relishing in the clean flavour. They’re the most expensive thing on her; she doesn't carry jewellery, her wallet is full of change, and even her clothes are little more than spare fatigues loaned from the clinic. Her cigarettes are the only thing she feels that define her, for now.

Her flair, her relief.

Angela’s slow dance along consciousness is interrupted when another patron enters the cafe, pausing at the door. Angela watches the figure from the corner of her eye. They look different, unfamiliar - and therefore intriguing.

If only slightly.

They look out of place. The figure stands with a rigidity, an alertness that betrays their military training. They wait for the weary waitress to greet them, to give them an option to sit at a booth, or at the counter, of which the figure takes the latter.

Angela chooses to ignore them, to chalk it up to another roaming mercenary looking for a quick fill before undoubtedly finding another desperate crew to take them in. At least, that’s her plan until the figure takes a spot two seats to her right.

She’s tall, and if Angela were to place her, she’d say she has the air of a mercenary operator. She can tell by her outfit - a sweater and trousers, tucked into heavy boots, rigging strapped from thigh to chest to shoulder, a side-arm prominently on display, but no colours.

Angela turns away in scorn at the brashness of the stranger; this person who so openly displays their weapon in a civilian building. Distasteful, unsightly, un-

“A doctor, are you?” The operator hums. Her German is blunt, harsh, but her voice is softer, more directed.

Angela doesn't turn to face her. Instead, she lifts her cigarette to her lips once more, the glow of the embers flaring to illuminate her face.

“Perhaps.” Angela replies. “Some call me such.”

“And what do others call you?”

Angela pauses, before she catches the operator’s meaning.

“Angela.”

“Angela,” The operator echoes, nodding. “I'm Fareeha.”

Angela makes the smallest gesture to let her know she’s heard her, but still she does not turn. Angela can feel the operator watching her with careful, calculated eyes.

And yet she doesn't feel unsafe.

Fareeha leans across a seat, eyes glancing to the cigarette between her lips. “The smoking,” Fareeha says quietly. “That will kill you, you know.”

Angela takes a longer drag, as if in spite. “Maybe.”

“It’s more than likely.” Fareeha says, her voice curling, as if with a smile.

“I’ll take my chances.”

Fareeha pauses, before giving a soft chuckle; softer than Angela expected. Fareeha drops the subject, and instead turns to the waitress to order coffee and some soup. It’s the first time since Fareeha has sat down that Angela has felt her gaze leave her, and for a moment it’s as if the evening’s chill has seeped just slightly further into the cafe. When the waitress leaves to busy herself with the order, Fareeha turns her attention back to Angela.

“So, tell me,” Fareeha starts. “How does a respectable doctor find themselves in a place such as this?”

Angela crinkles her nose, tapping her cigarette against an ash tray. “A respectable doctor _wouldn’t_ find themselves in a place such as this.”

“Do you mean to say you are no true doctor, or that you aren't respectable?”

Angela rolls her eyes. “What does it matter to you?” She says wearily. “None of us in this city who were not raised here are. We are a burden on the townsfolk, and none of us are respectable. Not you, not I, not any of the soldiers, nor their commanders.”

Fareeha leans closer. “It matters, because I would like to know you.”

“How bold.” Angela exhales another plume of smoke. “I'm not interested in sharing.”

Fareeha pauses as the waitress returns to place a mug and bowl in front of Fareeha, who nods her thanks. As she leaves, Fareeha sits back, speaking forward instead.

“My apologies, Angela.” Fareeha says, sipping at her coffee. “I did not mean to disturb your evening.”

Angela snuffs out her cigarette, one butt against many in an overflowing ashtray.

“Artillery and the wounded disturb my evenings, Fareeha. You were but the rumble of a distant storm in comparison.” Angela says, collecting her things. “Have a pleasant evening.”

As Angela makes her way to the door, Fareeha gives another chuckle.

“And to you, doctor.”

 

* * *

 

She’s covered in blood, but she doesn't care. She’s not even quite sure _who’s_ blood it is. Was it the new recruit they had brought back from the front, sobbing softly as Angela stitched him back together? Or the farmer who helped fend off a scouting party whose arm she had to amputate?

Perhaps it was the boy they found sneaking across a minefield.

Angela tries not to think about that one. She tries not to think about anything at all, letting herself drift off into the midnight, but the gurgling of her stomach and the weight of the world keeps her grounded. Her bootsteps echo across the cobbled street, and at this hour they’re the only sound to be heard.

Even the rain has abandoned this place.

Angela pushes her way into the cafe once more, and offers a curt nod to the waitress serving. Habit draws her to the same familiar seat, but reaction stops her in her place when she realizes someone’s already sitting there.

Fareeha turns, nodding to a standing Angela. “Good evening again, doctor.”

Angela clenches her jaw, and moves silently to another seat; several away from Fareeha. “I did not think this place left a good enough impression for you to return.”

Fareeha sips at her coffee. “What can I say. It’s quiet.”

Angela snorts. “It _was_ quiet.” She rummages in her pockets for her cigarettes, grimacing at the idle few that remain in her pack. She slips one between her lips -

A flame flickers inches from her face. Angela freezes, watching Fareeha with wary eyes, who has risen from her seat to lean against the counter, far too close to Angela. In her hand is a small, metal lighter casting a long flame, waiting, warming.

Fareeha chuckles as Angela hesitates. “Just a courtesy, doctor. I mean nothing by it.”

Angela pauses for a second longer, before leaning into the flame, letting her eyes flutter as the smoke fills her lungs, a sense of normalcy washing over her.

“You’re not going to warn me against the dangers of nicotine again, are you?” Angela quips, as she exhales to the side.

Fareeha shrugs, pocketing her lighter, but lingering against the counter. “I don’t feel the need to repeat myself. And you don’t look like you’re in the mood for it.”

Angela tilts her head in a small nod of appreciation. She’s earned that much. She orders the same, coffee and a hot plate, and the waitress disappears into the back to busy herself.

Angela can feel Fareeha’s eyes on her.

“Bad day?” Fareeha says, sliding onto a stool.

Angela doesn’t respond immediately. The blood is obvious, but she knows Fareeha’s question wants to know beyond that. She pulls an ashtray towards her, and taps the ash loose.

“There are no good days in Munich, Fareeha.” Angela says. “Not anymore.”

Fareeha tilts her head, frowning. “Not true. We evacuated another block without casualty. I would consider such to be a good day.”

“That _you_ know of,” Angela snaps. “Do you think this blood to be my own? Or perhaps you think the wounds I treat to be superficial?”

Fareeha’s gaze drops to the floor, her jaw tense. Angela finishes her cigarette in the silence that lingers, and does not fish another one from her pack.

“I did not mean offense, Angela.” Fareeha mutters. “I am sorry.”

Angela simply shakes her head in acknowledgement. She knows Fareeha meant well, that she does not deserve Fareeha’s apology, that it was sincere. But there’s little use for sincerity here; Sincerity makes for poor anodyne, and sincerity does little to stop bullets.

“Why are you here, Angela?” Fareeha says, her brow furrowed. “I asked around. You did not come here with a regiment, or with a force. You came here of your own accord, out of nowhere. Nobody knew who you were when you arrived.”

Angela leans against the counter, shifting the weight on her shoulders. She gives a weak chuckle, almost of exasperation.

“Look around, Fareeha. They need me here.”

Fareeha shakes her head. “No, they do not. This is not the front, and there is no lack of medical staff -”

Angela turns to face Fareeha for the first time. “Not _me_ as a doctor, Fareeha. Not even _myself_ personally. They _need_ someone who will care for them - _without_ orders. Someone that will do more than just undo the work of butchers - they need someone who can remind them that they are more than the unfortunate innocents caught in the crossfire, casualties who might one day become statistics. Someone to remind them that beyond the war, that there may come a day in which they can come home. _That_ is what they need.”

Fareeha pauses again, but when she speaks, it is barely above a whisper.

“You think yourself to be their angel? An icon of hope?”

Angela rolls her eyes. “Don’t mock me, Fareeha -”

Fareeha voice is curt. “Hardly; that was not my intention.” She pauses, mulling over her words. “It’s noble. Very admirable.”

Angela hesitates as she sees Fareeha for the first time. There’s a familiar weariness in her eyes too, the way her shoulders sag under burdens unseen, how behind the confident, rigid demeanor, there exists a stronger will.

Angela feels disarmed; all her rage, all her weariness, misguided and directionless. She’s grateful for the waitress’s return, serving her dinner and coffee - at least now she has something to busy herself with.

“Do you think you will ever leave this city?” Fareeha asks.

Angela sighs. “I’m not sure. In a city this close to the war, there is so much fear here. If I leave, it will be as a different person.”

Fareeha gives an understanding nod, and it scares Angela how familiar Fareeha’s presence has become in such a short time. As she begins to eat, Fareeha clears her throat, rising from her stool.

“I ought to leave you to your meal -”

“You can stay,” Angela interjects, her voice almost unfamiliar in her mouth. “If you wish.”

Fareeha watches Angela will a quiet contemplation, before sitting back down, and calling the waitress for another mug of coffee.

For the first time in a while, Angela appreciates the company. She’s almost forgotten how it felt.

 

* * *

 

Three more nights pass, and three more times did Angela find herself in company of Fareeha at the same darkened cafe. It scared her at first, how easily it felt to slip into their routine, but soon the inverse felt unimaginable.

Their conversations became lighter, despite the dark nights that seemed so suffocating, despite the days that loomed beyond the horizon. The first time Angela found herself laughing, it shocked her to realize that she couldn’t remember the last time she had done so.

Through one way or another, after a conversation that at the time felt like all the others, Angela found herself walking home, with Fareeha walking beside her.

“You don’t need to work so late.” Fareeha says, as more of a statement than a question. “The injured are coming in smaller numbers, and we are well stocked - for the time being.”

Angela hums in agreement, but she knows Fareeha intends for it to be an inquiry.

“You’re hiding a question.”

Fareeha smirks. Angela has come to know her well.

“Why is it I only find you at the cafe after midnight? You have time to eat earlier, at other places too.”

Angela slows her pace as she ponders her answer. “Do you have times during the day, when you are off-duty, Fareeha?”

“I suppose.”

“I do not.” Angela says. “None that I allot myself, in any case. I may not need to work so far into the evening, but I fear an emergency, when the worst happens and we rush too late to help the wounded. I dare not imagine leaving the clinic, only to return to find I was needed, but absent.

But in these hours, they expect me to sleep and rest, and with that expectation, I am in some small way relieved. In these hours, the world does not expect me to be a doctor, so I try to savour them as best I can.”

Fareeha chuckles. “You romanticize another bad habit, Angela.”

Angela smiles. “We all have our flaws.”

It’s not too long before they find themselves standing in front of the door to Angela’s apartment. It’s a modest arrangement; a few potted plants sit on the windowsill, and the paint has begun to peel from the doorframe.

“Would you like to come in?” Angela asks, unlocking the door.

Fareeha tilts her head, just slightly. “You must be tired. Perhaps you should get some sleep.”

Angela chuckles. “I don’t plan on sleeping for a while yet.”

Fareeha shrugs, stepping across the threshold. “Very well.”

Her space is bare, but not barren; a small desk sits against an open window, several books bearing no titles piled high upon it, and a vase with a wilted rose beside. A bed lies in the corner, sheets unmade with a pile of clothes at its end, the mattress misshapen, but nonetheless comfortable. The kitchen is clean enough, with several bowls sitting out to dry, a half-loaf of bread and a small wheel of cheese sitting on the counter.

Angela walks over to a wall of curtains, throwing them aside to reveal metal balcony doors, and the city beyond. She pushes them open, and a cool breeze slips in, with moonlight flooding the abode.

In the entryway, by the door, sits a small crate of wine.

“You drink, Doctor?” Fareeha asks, picking up a bottle to inspect the label.

Angela turns from her view of the city. “On occasion. Not too much. It was a gift, from a patient.”

Fareeha nods, smiling. “I like this wine.”

Angela watches as Fareeha inspects the half-empty bottle in her hands. “Would you like some?”

“Of course - if you would join me. I’d feel strange drinking if the host didn’t.”

Angela closes the distance between them. “Of course - though, I confess I don’t have any glasses for it.”

Fareeha raises a brow. “So, you have been drinking from the bottle?”

“Why not?” Angela smirks, lifting the bottle from Fareeha’s hands to sip at its contents.

Fareeha watches her with wide, amused eyes, but laughing and taking the bottle offered by Angela. Fareeha takes a smaller sip, and finds Angela’s hands slipping the bottle once more from hers, leaving it open upon her desk.

“What -”

Angela moves close, hands suddenly upon Fareeha’s stomach, stopping barely an inch away from her face, eyes waiting, watching, wary for any sign of hesitation in her body, in her words.

Fareeha pauses, if only for a second, before closing the gap.

Their kiss is frantic, unfamiliar, searching for the other’s rhythm for the first time in a moment of electrifying ecstasy. Angela’s hands slip beneath Fareeha’s sweater, finding a strong, tense core. Fareeha jumps from the touch, her hands grasping onto Angela’s forearms, breaking the moment.

Fareeha pants, staring deep into Angela’s eyes. “Are you sure?”

Angela nods, leading Fareeha over to sit upon her bed. Angela stands in the space between Fareeha’s knees, guiding Fareeha’s hands to rest upon her hips, as she begins to unbutton her shirt.

“I’m sure.”

 

* * *

 

It was a small fortune, that the bombs fell close to midday. The reserve forces were armed and at their posts, and the city had been about it’s way. So when the first block fell, there were only a few casualties to be addressed.

But for Angela, the screeching of air raid sirens always meant the end of days.

Chaos filled the streets, with frantic civilians and soldiers sprinting from place to place, shocked, stunned, injured, or worse. After an hour, the bunkers were filled, buildings were evacuated, and the city had steeled itself for next. The enemy was at their gates, and soon the fighting broke out.

Angela rushed between the wounded, her station a partially caved in cellar beneath the town hall. What barrels that could be moved had been replaced with makeshift beds, drips hanging from taps and piping. The boiler had been struck early, leaving the air thick and humid. Angela found herself wondering if she spent more time mopping up sweat, or blood.

She steeled herself, numb from the noise and heat. Nurses cried out for her at every turn, and her dwindling bag of supplies never left her side, even when it ran empty. Her hands felt as if they moved of their own accord, applying pressure, stitching flesh, digging out shrapnel. Her time between beds became a haze to her, dizzying and distant, as if otherworldly forces were pulling her from patient to patient. An older soldier, a foreign volunteer, a fellow medic.

A younger girl. A passing merchant. A convoy driver.

A florist. A school teacher.

A neighbour.

Fareeha.

Angela hovered over her, as if slowly rising from a freezing lake. She didn’t even notice her hands trembling, until she begged them to rise to examine the wounds.

Gunshot. Several.

She was breathing, but shallow. Fareeha’s eyes struggled to open, only to close tight against the pain, the pressure.

Angela cursed under her breath as she worked. “What have you gotten yourself into, Fareeha?” Her voice wavered, unsure, shaky.

Fareeha’s chuckle was weak, but it was there. “Unlucky, I suppose.”

The fighting grows quiet after the sun sets, as a line is drawn in the dirt, neither side willing to cross the threshold.

Angela sits by Fareeha instead of going home, watching her sleep in pain.

Their supply of sedatives has already been exhausted. There is little else to do.

Fareeha stirs in the few hours past midnight, and when her eyes strike open, she sees Angela watching her closely.

Angela speaks first, her voice breaking slightly.

"You're safe."

Fareeha smiles. "Thanks to you."

Angela doesn't return it. “I think it’s best if you left the city.”

Fareeha’s breathing is steadier; She will heal, in time. She opens a hand, reaching for Angela who takes it, and feels the soft squeeze of reassurance.

“If I leave, I will do so as a different person,” Fareeha whispers. “It’s in this city, that I have found so much to love.”

Angela gives a weak chuckle, and lifts Fareeha’s hand to press a lips against her knuckles.

She prays that they will see the end of the war.

**Author's Note:**

> ah jeez what have i done. is any of this accurate? does it even rain a lot near munich? i'm so sorry for any inconsistencies. i just had this mental image of noir-esque mercy sitting at the counter, smoking and sipping coffee and had to write something about it. 
> 
> sorry for making them sound all old-timey. i liked the concept of them speaking in german the whole time, and all dialogue being translated via a very demure and formal linguist.  
> thanks for reading! leave a comment if you really want to, i love the dang things.


End file.
